Marriage Guidance Councillor: The Death of A.Pewty
by Mrs Spam Egg Sausage and Spam
Summary: i wrote fanfiction. woo. this might be a little odd for some.. it's a sort of projected stream of consciousness... Pewty's final day.


Marriage Guidance Councillor: The Death of Arthur Pewty.  
  
Rating: PG-13: some references to sex, inevitably.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, et cetera. Monty Python does. And Python is owned by a small mouse with an obsession with purple soap and turpentine.  
  
Notes: My 1000 word dedication to that loathsome little man, so pathetic that he repels even pity.. only he doesn't. If I wasn't obsessed with Eric, I would feel more sorry for his character. This was written on one of my many caffeine highs. My first fanfiction, so please say what you think. PS I don't claim this will be any good.  
  
His nose sliced open the air as he stepped out. Today, he would be brave. Today he would stand tall. Today, he would have a voice! today, Today. today. Glasses? check. Hair greased? check. Pocket watch? check. Prepared spiel for the Marriage Guidance Councillor? there will be time in the car for that. He couldn't help notice that the rest of the world seemed to swim past in slow motion as he walked down the drive. He didn't ignore the warning signs; he didn't care about the triviality of danger.  
  
What was dangerous, he did not know. Deirdre walked out behind. Vicious, unfaithful, flirting little bitch. His vicious, unfaithful, flirting little bitch. Pewty! Must not let go, Mr and Mrs Arthur Pewty, in name, forever etched into impassive parchment, not caring how is was marked, and by whom. The certificate that had been spat on a million times, possibly more from that sex-bunny look in her eye, by deceitful wives and Casanova's. She is the embodiment of lust, of infidelity, of sex. Look at the lack of fabric over her thighs. Those same thighs that had walked her up the alter towards you, and had proclaimed virginity in the face of you that night, accountant. Look at her face. Does she know your name, Arthur Pewty? Had she ever really called your name? Her blond hair doesn't think so, and neither do her dimples. Smooth your hair, Pewty. Climb the car, Pewty. Drive.  
  
Nothing is real in that journey. Nothing reaches you. All sound is within. Laying out the nouns for your spiel. Precise, methodical. You cannot see her waving to random men. You did not see her. They are not waving back Pewty. Just about time for an adjective. They do not call her name in recognition, and remembrance. Noun, noun, where's the noun needed? Feet. On account of her feet. Her giggles and sex-kitten smiles will not penetrate your eyes, keep your eyes on the road. Pewty! are you paying attention? Be a man Pewty. Don't compress the accelerator. Packing up your nouns and verbs: your last weapons.  
  
He sits at his desk; a mountain of sex. His placard speaks but so does his skin. You are looking at a demigod, Arthur Pewty. You are looking at your emotional ruin. Deirdre is looking at her next meal. Legs folded seductively, buttocks shuffling against plastic. His fingers dance over the desk, white bones that scrape at your conscience. Smile Arthur Pewty. He is here to help you. Lie to yourself, Pewty. It can be done. Sense of duty, sense of right and wrong. You can tell he is speaking: his lips are dancing and his eyes are alight. He is not speaking to you: you have seen this look from men before. His words cannot be heard by you; they do not exist in your world. He is asking about her, she does not have a voice. Sex cannot speak: it is spoken for. An automated reaction results: he could be asking her name, her bust size, or maybe how many affairs she has had; what ever he asks, you tell him what he wants. Eyes alight, his adjectives are flaming in a colour yours never  
do. Your punch-bag heart feels ready to fall. Lighter than a pin, it makes no noise, other than of the avalanche of messy nouns first prepared.  
  
It all tumbles out: all of those carefully packed words. Nothing is heard, not by him, serpent man in his suit and blond hairs. Not glanced at by that vulture. Her perches on the brink of your sanity, Pewty. The brink of your life. There are not enough nouns in the sea of adjectives that he is drowning you in. You can hear yourself screaming out inside, `why don't you just climb onto her? Why don't you just swallow her whole?' He complies. The beautiful people are brought together. He does not hear your words, just your silence: you pause, and he urges you on. A meld of blond and sex. You stand with them. Why, Pewty? You are letting this snake swallow your apple. Your wife-whore. You are letting her disappear. You are slipping out the room, not knowing what to do. Close the door: silence.  
  
What is happening? Why are you not reacting, Pewty? You can do more than this. You can do more than pretend that you know nothing is happening. Dignity, honour, manhood all sacrificed long ago, you still have a mind inside of you. You are still a human. Does that matter for nothing? Be a man, Arthur Pewty, and kick that snake into the dust, take away with you your bitch trophy.  
  
His head swells, lyrical lungs, musical nostrils. Inflating penguin, living in a strange world of colours. Humour, love and sorrow are all strange beasts that you cannot catch and contract, cannot be valued, cannot be sold, but they are still worth perusing? Why? Driven by inexplicable force, Mr Arthur Pewty steps into the room, intending to deliver a bellowing roar to silence those terrifying giggles of Deirdre's, the awful way she has of showing she is having fun. Opening his mouth to bellow. Opening is mouth to deliver an outraged cry that will shake the mountains and his screened wife.  
  
First nothing... and then? Squeaking. You are not a man, Pewty, you are a mouse! Vermin, a timid creature in spectacles and hair grease. The outcry that was supposed to crumble Deirdre, that's your wife, does nothing. Provokes merely dismissal from those pink snake lips. What can you do but scurry slowly out of the room? So you crawl away, like the proverbial woodlouse you are, under your own 16-ton weight. The blissful black shields you from the colours of the word, the blond and pink of him; it shields you from the noises that penetrate your skull: you are free from those giggles and words not meant for you. You're a man now, Arthur Pewty. A dead man. 


End file.
